


The Names That Bind Us

by notquitegucci (AllieKitaguchi)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes & T'Challa - Freeform, Bucky Barnes Feels, Fluff and Angst, I'm Sorry, IT'S THEIR ENEMIES, M/M, So yeah, T'Challa Feels, also i love t'challa and i love bucky but this is NOT t'challa/bucky, and so people go through their whole lives with a series of different names, and treasure, basically heres the deal, but get this, but like, cara talked me into this, everyone gets names on their wrists, everyone's kinda a bamf, i'm sorry treasure, idk man, okay, soulhate au, the names can change???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 04:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6940228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllieKitaguchi/pseuds/notquitegucci
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky’s ma used to say that he was special because he didn’t have a name. She’d smile real sweet at him and say, “<i>Aw Buck, you ain’t got a name because you ain’t capable of hatin’ nobody!</i>” and Bucky had always agreed with her. Or at least, he had, until Steve started getting into fights every day.<br/><br/>Or: the one where you get the name of your enemy on your wrist.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> peep me on social media, always : @alliekitaguchi (applies to twitter/tumblr/instagram/etc)

       Bucky’s ma used to say that he was special because he didn’t have a name. She’d smile real sweet at him and say, “ _Aw Buck, you ain’t got a name because you ain’t capable of hatin’ nobody!_ ” and Bucky had always agreed with her. Or at least, he had, until Steve started getting into fights every day.  
  
      Bucky had always been surprised that names had never appeared when he was busy pulling Steve up off of the sidewalk and wiping blood away from his split lip. Unlike Stevie, who had a different name every week it would seem—hell a different day, if Bucky was being honest—Bucky’s wrists would always stay distractingly bare.  
  
      The thing with the names was that no one really understood them. Politicians would say that the name that appeared on your wrist was the name of your mortal enemy. Scientists would say that the names that appeared were just people you didn’t care for. Bucky just accepted them for what they were, regardless of what others said.  
  
      The names had been an anomaly in science for as long as anyone could remember. Long before Bucky was born, people would make a list of the names that appeared on their skin and the reasons why they believed the names were there. Sometimes it was mundane things like someone accidentally dented their car.  
  
      Sometimes it was because someone had murdered their loved ones.  
  
      The names never really made sense to anyone because they appeared before the events took place. Once, Jimmy Olsen’s name had appeared on Steve’s wrist when he was ten. Steve had been confused because Jimmy had seemed like a nice guy, until Steve caught him getting too aggressive with a lady and picked a fight.  
  
      Steve’s wrist held more names than their entire streets combined. Bucky had a vague memory of a fight Steve had gotten into where Steve was getting knocked around by three different guys and Bucky swore that he could see the names on Steve’s wrist changing as they each took a swing at him.  
  
      The names shifted like rolling water, flashing across Steve’s pale skin as he focused shifted from one guy to the next. When Bucky had told his ma later than night about what he saw, she had just shrugged. Anything could cause a name to appear, and there was no telling how long it would stay there.  
  
      Some people, however unlucky, had their names change daily.  
  
      Steve was, of course, one of those people.  
  
      Bucky got into such a habit of checking Steve’s wrists that he made sure it was the first thing he did in the morning when he saw Steve. He’d grab him around his biceps and roll the sleeves of his shirt up and let his eyes wander over the name on Steve’s near translucent skin so he’d know who he’d have to fight later that day.  
  
      Steve would push him away and whine, “ _C’mon, Buck, stop it! I can take care of myself!_ ”  
  
      To which Bucky would raise one dark eyebrow and snark back, “ _Oh yeah? Tell that to your bruised ribcage, Stevie._ ”  
  
      Together, the two of them got into more trouble than anyone in Brooklyn. People would whisper about them in the streets and in their homes, talking about how they were either stupid or crazy. If you asked Bucky and Steve’s ma’s, they’d tell you that their children were both.  
  
      The two of them were inseparable—both as children and adults. They grew up together and the longer the spent together, the closer they got. By the time Bucky was well into his twenties, it was apparent to anyone who so much as glanced at him and Steve that Bucky would willingly die for the younger man.  
  
      Then the war happened.  
  
      Winifred Barnes had been proud that Bucky had enlisted, sure, but she was terrified of what might happen to him out there. Bucky couldn’t give a rat’s ass what happened to him—no, it was Steve that he was worried about. “ _Who’s gonna look after him while I’m gone?_ ” He’d asked his ma once.  
  
      She’d only smiled and said, “ _Knowing you, Buck, you’ll find a way._ ”  
  
      And things were okay for a while—sure, Bucky got captured by Hydra and Zola and was used as their personal guinea pig, but Steve found him. And Steve was tall and strong and healthy and the world could finally see him the way Bucky always had. For a while, things were perfect.  
  
      And then Bucky fell.


	2. Chapter 2

      T’Challa’s name appeared when he was well into his twenties.  
  
      He was so startled that he could do nothing more than stare at the lettering that circled his dark skin. He must’ve stood there for several minutes because his father eventually stuck his head into T’Challa’s hotel room, frowning at his son with worry creased into the lines on his forehead. “Are you alright, son?”  
  
      “Yes, father,” T’Challa said quietly, dark eyes still fixated on his wrist.  
  
      “What troubles you?” T’Chaka stepped into the room, shoeing his body guards away as he did so, and closed the door softly behind him.  
  
      T’Challa held out his wrist. “A name has appeared.”  
  
      T’Chaka’s eyebrows shot up on his forehead and he gently cradled his son’s wrist, rubbing the pad of his thumb over the lettering. “I was beginning to think you were never going to get a name.”  
  
      “As was I,” T’Challa frowned. “I do not understand. I do not know this man. I do not actively hate anyone.”  
  
      “But it seems that you will, my son,” T’Chaka shook his head. “I am sorry you have to endure this.”  
  
      “I do not want conflict, father.”  
  
      “I know you don’t,” T’Chaka sighed and sat down on the sofa. “Conflict is not something that you can avoid—not in this world anyway.”  
  
      “I know, father,” T’Challa sat down next to him, idly fingering the cuffs of his suit. “But I fear that something terrible will happen.”  
  
      “There is no need to think like that,” T’Chaka said sternly. “For all you know, this man could be the person who accidentally spills coffee on you later today.”  
  
      T’Challa shot his father a bland look. “I do not think so.”  
  
      T’Chaka sighed and took his son’s hands into his own. “I know. But I do not want you to dwell on this. The name upon your wrist is there for a reason. Nothing you do or say will change that.”  
  
      “I understand.”  
  
      “Besides,” T’Chaka smiled wanly. “How do you know it is not you who messes up? Maybe you are not the victim in this fight.”  
  
      T’Challa laughed and bumped his father’s shoulder. “It would not surprise me. I am a prince, father. I am sure I have angered many before.”  
  
      “It comes with the crown,” T’Chaka smiled.  
  
      “Not to you,” T’Challa spoke quietly, glancing up at his father from the side of his eye. “The people of Wakanda—they love you. You are a good king. You are kind and just and fair. They would die for you.”  
  
      “As they will do for you too,” T’Chaka added.  
  
      “I do not know how I will step up to fill your shoes, father.”  
  
      “You don’t have to be like me,” T’Chaka said, rubbing his thumb over the back of T’Challa’s hands. “You are your own person, my son, and you will have your own opinions and outlooks. You do not need to concern yourself with being like me.”  
  
      “I fear that the people will not love me as they love you,” T’Challa looked away. “I fear they will not respect me as a king.”  
  
      “You have given them no reason not to,” T’Chaka frowned. “Why are you saying such things?”  
  
      “This name,” T’Challa gestured down to his wrist again. “Maybe because of this—whatever happens to cause me to hate this man—the people will not accept me as a leader.”  
  
      “T’Challa,” T’Chaka admonished. “You cannot speak this way. If I know you, and I do, because you are my son, then I know that you will grow to be a strong and wise king someday. It pains me to see you speak of yourself in such a way.”  
  
      “I am sorry, father,” T’Challa kissed his father’s hand gently. “I do not know what came over me.”  
  
      “You cannot let the name dictate your life, T’Challa.” His father caught his eye. “You mustn’t let it consume you, as it has done to so many others before.”  
  
      “I understand.”  
  
      “Promise me,” T’Chaka said, eyes serious. “Promise me that you will not let anger and hatred consume you.”  
  
      “I promise.” T’Challa said after a beat. “I may not know why this name has appeared on my wrist, but I am sure there is a reason.”  
  
      “There must be,” His father agreed. “Come now, we do not wish to be late for our meeting.” T’Challa nodded once and pulled his sleeve down the rest of the way. Together they stood, sharing another brief moment of eye contact, before heading out of the room and down the hall.  
  
      Inside the panel room, his father stepped away from his side, wandering off to talk with fellow diplomats while T’Challa shifted through the bustling crowd and towards the glass windows on the other side of the room. He stood and watched as the people below him strode up and down the streets, carefree.  
  
      T’Challa did not realize it then, but he would remember this day forever.  
  
      He would remember the way he had approached Natasha Romanov and spoken to her about the Sokovia Accords. He would remember the way that he stood off to the side as his father spoke of peace. He would remember spotting the truck and yelling for everyone to get down. He would remember trying to save his father.  
  
      He would remember finally understanding the name _James Buchanan Barnes_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \


End file.
